Someone Else's Girl
by PanDaimonia
Summary: Good girls pretend, good girls play along. Pansy knows what her duty is, but she never thought it would be like this.


There's something I've never told anyone. Sometimes, I wish I were a mudblood. A Muggleborn, I mean. Sometimes I even wonder if I'd rather be a Muggle. I imagine living in a normal little house with shrubbery, a bit of garden in the back, maybe a swing set or sandbox. Inside, there would be a radio, and a television, and a telephone, and a refrigerator. I'd have two parents who worked at normal jobs, and I'd see them every day when I came home from school. They would ask me how my day was and we would eat dinner together and maybe afterward…well, I'm not sure what Muggles would do afterwards.

They wouldn't sell me to Lucius Malfoy, that's for sure. Wouldn't trade their daughter for one more step up in society, one more rung up the ladder to truly being The Right Sort. That's what daughters are for though, aren't they?

I hate being a girl. To be fair, I know Draco didn't have a choice in the matter either, but it's different for him. He still has his family, his freedom. He can go out with his mates, he can even see other women, and as long as he's discreet no one will say a word about it. It's expected, just like it was expected that he would marry me, that as soon as we were out of Hogwarts it would be a fast ticket to domesticity, and then I would contentedly stay at home and give him an heir as soon as his parents said the word.

People say that my parents and the Malfoys were friends, and that's how the match was arranged. It's true that my parents and Draco's go back a long ways (what Pureblood families don't anymore? Endangered species need to stick together and all that), but the Malfoys have lots of friends. They can afford to—and not many Pureblood families can afford not to be on friendly terms with the Malfoys. But it wasn't just about families; even these days when nice, pedigreed Pureblood girls are getting harder and harder to come by, I know I was nothing special in that respect. Replaceable. Interchangeable.

No, _he_ chose me. Which makes sense, seeing as he's the head of the household, and that's customary…but it felt different. I'm not explaining this well, am I?

When I was a little girl, the Malfoys auditioned me, the way they auditioned any potential match for Draco. I could feel my mother's anxiety that morning, as she fussed over me—she didn't trust a servant to get it right. She knew what she wanted: hair in place, bow holding it back, stiff dress robes that crackled when I moved, new shoes. She inspected my nails, behind my ears, told me to remember to curtsey and be polite.

My parents and I went to the Malfoy home together, for once united in a common cause. On they way there, I sat between them in the carriage (that was rare in itself), and they each kept a tight grip on one of my arms. After we arrived at the Malfoy's, we were shown in and told to wait in the reception room for them. We did, for what seemed like a very long time to my child-self. At last, they appeared, coming down the staircase into the room. I heard the sound of Narcissa's heels clicking on the floor before I saw her, but Lucius moved silently. Not a sound to give him away.

He approached me first though, once the two of them had greeted my parents. He told me to stand up, and I did. I stood there before him, ready to do whatever I had to. This was Important. This was my future in the balance, Mother had told me. He looked me up and down, carefully, had me turn around, twice—both directions. With a single finger, he tipped my chin up so that I was forced to look him in the eye. I'm half surprised he didn't open my mouth and inspect my teeth. I felt like an animal, on display. I was terrified.

Afterward, they invited us into the parlor. I remember sitting in his lap. By this time, my hair bow had slid down—they never did stay well in my hair, it was always too fine. He untied the ribbon and put it back in my hair, tying it neatly in a bow (where did he learn to tie them like that, I wonder) and—I'm not sure if I remember this part clearly, but I feel almost certain in saying that he kissed the top of my head then. A light brush of lips over pink hair bow and wispy dark hair, a slight squeeze of my skinny little-girl shoulders. My feet were in shiny new shoes, not very comfortable, and I sat there on his lap, swinging my feet slightly, until my mother shot me a Look and I stopped. I stared at my feet dangling there. I could almost see my reflection in them: my face, and then off to the side a bit, his. If I turned my head, my reflection overlapped with his.

My parents were nervous; I knew was on display, that it was all some sort of test. I did my best not to fidget, not to speak unless spoken to, to always say, "Yes, sir" or "Yes, ma'am" when they addressed me.

During all this time, I never saw Draco—something which made me curious, but I knew better than to ask. After some time, we were shown out of the parlor, back into the reception room. Lucius and Narcissa conversed, alone in the room. When they came out, they nodded. Lucius and my father shook hands. Narcissa clasped my mother's hand, laughed, said how happy they were that they could tell us yes.

Then Narcissa knelt and took my face in her hands. "What a pretty little girl," she said. Her hands were cold, her manicured nails long and uncomfortable against my skin, but I held perfectly still. "Someday you'll be almost like my little girl, won't you?"

* * *

Years later, he says to me, "Narcissa always wanted a daughter. A little girl to dress up, just like a miniature version of herself."

"Did you want a daughter?"

His eyes flick up and down, and I shiver slightly, not sure what answer it is I'm looking for. "I got the daughter that I wanted."

I was always half in awe of him. Afraid of him, yes, but drawn to him too.

He didn't ever touch me, if that's what you're wondering. Nothing in the least way improper or sideways from Mr. Malfoy. No, he was perfectly appropriate to me, to his future daughter-in-law. A hand on the small of my back as he opened the door for me, a quick brush against my shoulder… No more.

This doesn't mean I didn't think about it though.

* * *

It's my wedding day. Funny how quickly time passes when you're always wishing you were living a different life, isn't it?

I'm a married woman now. My mother cried this morning as she got me ready, saying that she was losing her baby, her darling, her only daughter, only child…

"The Malfoys should approve of this jewelry," she said, satisfied for once. Something for her to be proud of—heirlooms, they've been in the family for years. I was ready for my wedding, with my dress (it might be a Muggle affection, but we don't talk about that), weighed down with pearl necklaces, chokers, bracelets, rings, even a diadem, a single pearl to rest in the middle of my forehead.

She stood back, looked me up and down, and wiped the invisible dust off her hands. "Like a princess in a fairy tale," she concluded. "If the Malfoys don't love you, there must be something wrong with them."

If the Malfoys love me, not if Draco loves me. This is understood. The family is what counts, not him, not me. My job is first and foremost to please them.

Ever since I was promised to Draco, I've known my life with my family was temporary. Growing up, if I misbehaved my mother always said to me, "Do you think the Malfoys want a daughter who behaves like that? Do you think they would let you mouth off like that? Do you think they would tolerate a daughter who let herself look like that?"

My destiny in life was to be a Malfoy—I couldn't forget that.

* * *

The wedding had gone exactly as it was supposed to.

Now we are in the parlor for the viewing, the two of us seated on the divan, with my gown (a "lacey confection of wedding dreams", or so the seamstress said) fanned out around me. Draco is sitting next to me, his hand resting lightly on my arm as we greet guests. Narcissa and Lucius are positioned at the doorway, ushering wedding guests in, greeting, smiling, making small talk.

As was traditional, last night Draco and I had had our wedding portrait painted, so that the two of us might hang in the Great Hall for all future Malfoys to see and admire. I was truly part of the family now. My parents were so proud—_"Look everyone, our daughter's a Malfoy now. See, we must have done something right."_

The last guests are leaving now. My parents must have left already, but I didn't notice them go. Narcissa has just retired for the evening; too much excitement has given her a headache and she went upstairs to lie down.

I look around the room—there are piles of gifts in one corner, probably enough crystal to last us for the rest of our lives if we smashed our dishes each night after dinner. A drunken house elf lies unconscious amidst one of the flower arrangements, its small feet sticking out from behind several pink orchids, and I smother a laugh. It doesn't look good for bride to be busy snickering on their wedding days.

While I wasn't watching, Lucius had entered the room. A quick nod of the head, a particular glance of the eye, and Draco snaps to attention.

"Draco, your godfather would like to have a word with you before he leaves. Everything is ready for the traditional blessing. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father." Draco got up quickly, disentangling himself from my dress without a single glance at me.

I started to rise to go with him, but Lucius had already closed the door. He faced me, and I quickly sat back down.

"Were you given permission to get up?"

"No, sir."

"Then you shall remain here until I say otherwise."

"Yes, sir." I pause a moment, then add, "I'm sorry."

"There will be no apologizing." He raises one hand, watching me dispassionately, coolly waiting for me to flinch. I do. "I will not strike you. This is not the time, nor the place. A man does not strike a woman, unless…the circumstances are different. Or she prefers such treatment."

I feel myself flush at these words, and I see his knowing smirk. "So you do understand some things already. That will make this situation…simpler."

"Situation?" Suddenly, my throat feels dry. Does he think I don't know about the facts of life and need last minute instructions before my wedding night (my wedding night with Draco, something I am resolutely not contemplating at the moment)? "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir."

"I don't expect you to."

"Oh." I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn't. I try not to, but I'm starting to fidget—biting my lip, nervously evening out the wrinkles in my dress and twisting my hands together. One glance from him, and I stop. No apologies this time, though it's hard for me not to.

"You can get up now, Pansy."

I stand up, smoothing down my dress, waiting for further instruction.

"We are going upstairs now."

We? I don't ask questions, I do what he says. He leads me out of the room, one hand on my back, guiding me down the hall, up the stairs, to a room at the end of a corridor I've never seen before. He opens the door and shows me in—I hesitate briefly, until he shoots me a What Are You Waiting For? look, and I go in.

It's a bedroom. One that hasn't been in use for some time, I would guess. Some of the furniture is still covered with white sheets. At a quick glance, I see old-fashioned floral wallpaper, a four poster bed, a large art deco mirror on the wall. A simple white nightgown lies on the bed, as if waiting for someone. Lucius picks it up. "Put this on."

I take it from him, but already I'm feeling more confused than I have all day. "I—sir?"

This time, when he looks at me, I think he really is laughing at me. "You can go in there." He points to a door, and I go into a small, dimly lit room with a wash basin and a small mirror. The wedding dress is not easy to get off; as soon as I go into the room, I realize I am never going to be able to undo the back buttons myself. When I come out of the room still mostly dressed—only my veil and my gloves have been removed—Lucius arches an eyebrow.

"I can't do it by myself, sir. I need your help."

I think he knew this would happen, but he doesn't say anything, just nods and moves behind me. I thought the most surreal moment of this day was saying, "I do" to Draco at the altar—in fact, I had thought that was one of the most surreal moments of my life. Now, however, I am standing in some strange room being undressed by his father, which I have to say beats holy matrimony with Hogwarts' former bouncing ferret by a long shot in the bizarre and unexpected category.

Lucius' fingers move quickly and deftly over the little seed pearl buttons, and soon I am standing in front of him in nothing but a lacy little slip. I step out of my dress, and he takes it from me, draping it carefully over a chair. Now I'm standing half-naked in front of him, and there is no chance whatsoever that I could look him in the eyes. Instead, I look into the mirror and see myself standing there, small and dark next to him. I didn't realize when I put it on this morning that my slip was so short and low-cut in front, or that it was almost sheer. I see the shape and shadow of my nipples showing through, and I watch his eyes slide down, pausing at them for a second. Our eyes meet then, and is it my imagination, or for the briefest moment does he look ashamed?

If he is, he recovers quickly enough to say, scornfully, "Ah, I see it's the pure and virginal bride."

Something has humanized him enough that my fear of him recedes briefly, and I retort back, "What makes you so sure I'm a virgin?"

This was obviously the wrong thing to say; it makes him angry. "It's not the time for your little jokes, _Pansy_." When his face darkens, twists, he is truly ugly.

"I'm sorry, sir." My face is downcast, and I don't notice him come up behind me until his hands glide over my shoulders—barely touching, but I feel goosebumps breaking out on the skin beneath his hands.

"I know that _Draco_ hasn't touched you. I've made sure of that." His breath is soft and warm against my ear and the back of my neck. The hair there stands up straight, and I'm trembling slightly.

I try to turn to face him, but his hands suddenly clamp against my upper arms and hold me in place. Instead, I must struggle against him with words. "You wanted me kept untouched, _pure_ for you?"

I think he is irritated by this little outburst, his mouth twists in something between disdain and amusement. At my expense, naturally. "It was the honorable thing for you. To preserve a girl's virtue—"

"This—" I don't know how to say it, I just wave my hand at him, then at me, gesturing at some invisible line between the two of us, connecting us—"is honorable?"

"It's _tradition_." He releases the grip on my arms, and rests his hand on my shoulders, a weight that emphasizes his words. Warm and heavy, bearing down on me. "There is merit in tradition. Wouldn't you agree on the virtue of tradition, Pansy?"

A tradition? I'm not certain I believe you, Lucius Malfoy, but I know it's not safe to say that. I can't predict you.

"It has nothing to do with virtue."

"On the contrary, it has everything to do with virtue. The virtue of _obedience_. Of _submission_. Of knowing your place."

I change tactics. "A tradition? I've never heard of that."

A smile this time—that predatory gleam is back, and I shiver. "The Malfoys make their own traditions."

I use the last thing I can think of. "What about Draco?"

Ah, that's different isn't it? His face changes, his response becomes clipped. "Draco knows his place. He must. He will."

I am out of arguments now, and Lucius must know it. I stare up at him, relinquishing my last claim. I've lost this battle, and all I can do is hope that he feels like being gentle with me. Perhaps he understands; tenderly, for him, he caresses my face. His hand is large against my cheek, and I turn my face to his palm, closing my eyes. I feel his thumb glide over my lips, and I give the slightest little inhale.

"Pansy?"

I open my eyes. "Yes?"

"You really haven't ever done this before, have you."

"No."

Something is resolved now in his mind, and he nods. "Good."

I see, or I think I do—a small piece in the puzzle. Very well, if he wants to see me as innocence that he can hold and admire and then smash—well, I can be that. I have a limited repertoire, but tonight I can be what he wants, I think. I hope.

I'm afraid. I want to please him, I'm frightened at what might happen if I don't. And…he's not Draco. I like that. He's a man, with real power, and the thought intrigues me. _He_ intrigues me. I want him, want him to want me.

I hide from him in the best way I know—sinking inward. It's as if my soul has become too small for my body, and it contracts, shrinking to no bigger than the size of a thimble. Now I am safe, I can do what I need to do. Before he asks me, I begin to undress. Off comes the slip—I pull it over my head and let it drop to the floor, white silk pooling at my feet. As an afterthought, I remove my earrings, long teardrops that brush cool against my face, and drop them into the palm of his hand. Everything that a bride brings into the marriage belongs to the head of her husband's household, after all.

In this way, I bare myself for him, until soon, I am inescapably naked. I run my hands down over the sides of my breasts, my stomach, the curve of my hips. I'm on display, and it's terrifying and exhilarating. I want him to like what he sees—to want me the way I suddenly realize I want him, even though I also wish I were far, far away.

Still, he doesn't approach me, and I wonder if I'm doing something wrong. His appraising look tells me little. I hate waiting, so I go to him first—that's what I tell myself. Kissing him on the mouth seems far too intimate, too bold. Instead, I press my lips to his throat, feeling a sharp stab of pride when I hear his breath hitch.

"Do you want to please me?" His voice is lower, huskier now, and his hands come up to slide over my arms.

I nod. "Yes, sir."

"You don't know how though, do you, Pansy?"

"No, sir."

"Do you want me to teach you?"

"Yes."

He lifts me in his arms then and carries me to the bed. We lie down together, and he takes me in his arms, kisses me fully on the lips. I've been kissed before, but it was nothing like this. My mouth opens under his, and I find myself pushing against him, arching up against his body. His touch becomes more insistent, and when he tells me to, I open for him.

I'm nervous and I tense under his touch, but he shushes me softly. "Relax, I'm not going to hurt you anymore than I have to." He opens me up with the pads of his fingers, and I'm shaking, clinging to his back. When he enters me, I dig my nails in too hard, and he gives a little yelp. I almost laugh, but manage to stifle it.

It hurts, there's not a lot more to it than that. Some pain, some shock at the oddness, a strange new feeling of stretching—none of the pints of blood and excruciating pain that I'd heard about from some older Slytherin girls. After a little while, his rhythm becomes familiar to me, and I no longer feel so self-conscious, merely detached. I float above my body, thinking about the patterns on the wallpaper, observing the little red marks my nails left on his shoulders, absently noting the sound of his body slapping wetly against mine.

"There's a good girl," he whispers in my ear.

I've been trained to be a good girl, haven't I? Years of practice: _Oh, it must be really terrible, Draco. Please, let me fawn all over you and simper disgustingly. Let me follow you everywhere, looking like a dog begging for a bone… Oh yes, I live to be your sycophant._ I learned well.

I'm not that girl. Am I? I'm not anyone's sweet girl.

I wrap my arms more tightly around his chest, press my face to the sweaty curve of his shoulder. Being rather bored, I flick my tongue against his collarbone, tasting salt. Soon, this should all be over. He will be done looking undignified, his face contorted, his long hair tangled and in both of our faces, and he will be recognizably Lucius Malfoy once again.

His hands fist in my hair, he is moving more quickly, thrusting harder against me. His breath speeds up and he groans, muttering something unintelligible—was it my name? "I know you," he gasps into my ear.

How does he know me? I'm a stranger here.

* * *

The next day we eat dinner in silence, only the sound of silver clinking against porcelain, crystal glasses making muffled chinks against damask linen.

Narcissa spilled her glass of wine the other night, pomegranate-red liquid spreading out over the clean white tablecloth. It's not like her to be like this; something's making her upset. Her nerves are fragile, she can't hold up well under the stress. After dinner she will retire to her room, take some Potion prescribed by the doctor to relax her.

Mrs. Malfoy—Narcissa, now, in my mind, because even if we're not equals, if fucking her husband doesn't put me on the same level as her in some way, what does?—is laughing. Falsely, I'm sure, and for a moment I hate her. It's not that simple though; I suddenly feel sorry for her and envious, all at once. Mostly for being married to him, I suppose.

Draco and I have hardly talked all day, but I know what I have to do now. After dinner we go upstairs to his bedroom—our bedroom now. The second Malfoy master suite. I try to imagine spending the rest of my life sleeping here, in the same bed with him, and I feel vaguely nauseated.

I'm prepared. When he kisses me, I kiss back—open mouth, let him find my tongue, wrap my arms around him and cling, and so on. He isn't much for the foreplay, so pretty soon we're in bed with most of our clothes tangled on the floor. He squeezes one breast, then the other, sucks on my neck for a bit, attempts to fumble around down there (which is rather painful—I'm still feeling sore, and I hope he doesn't notice that I have some lovely purple bruises there from the weight of Lucius' hips bearing down me)…but when I finally try to help guide him, he slaps my hand away. I try to shift positions, reach for him, but each time I get the same reaction.

"Here, I can help you. It's nothing to be ashamed of to be a little…"

"It's not that, you stupid girl." His face is flushed, and he turns his back to me.

What the hell is he doing? We're never going to get anything done if he keeps acting like this. I prop myself up on one elbow. "Draco…"

"I don't need your help!"

"I'm your wife, you know, I'm trying to…"

"You can't help me!" He's shouting, and I wonder if the rest of the house can hear him. "It's not your damn business anyway."

"What is it? I can't do anything if you don't tell me."

"SHUT UP!" Draco grabs for his robes now, starting to pull them back on. "This isn't working. Get out."

Oh. I think I understand what's going on now. Half of me wants to smirk at the realization that the amazing bouncing ferret isn't going to be perking up any time soon, but the rest of me realizes that doing my duty and giving him an heir is going to be more difficult than I thought. And Malfoy wives who aren't able to perform their duties aren't looked kindly upon.

Right when I'm getting ready to slip out the door as quietly as possible and look for a good place to disappear, he turns on me. He's obviously angry, so furious that tears are coming into his eyes. "It's your fault, you bitch. Did you do something to me, you whore?"

Draco slaps my face—not hard, there's no real power in the blow. He slams me back down against the pillows, which jars my neck and my head. I hear my teeth click together, and I taste blood. This hurts far more than his slap. He's grabbing my throat and shaking me, and I can tell his fingers are going to leave bruises.

"I can't breath! Draco, let go of me." For a moment, I wonder if I could really die now. No one would know, I'm sure the Malfoys could cover it if they wanted to…

Would Lucius cover up for Draco?

_A man does not strike a woman, unless…_

Something snaps in me then, and I shove Draco from me with all my strength. "Let go of me, or you _will_ regret it." I can't say why it works this time, but he lets go of me. He draws back on the bad, panting, and for the first time I see fear in his eyes. Fear of himself.

"I hate you, Draco Malfoy.." He says nothing, just continues to sit there, looking shocked. Before he can snap out of it, I pull my robe on and leave as quickly as possible. At the door I look back at him, both of us still stunned. "_I hate you_, you coward. You—you're not half the man your father is."

_But I hate him too. Except I think sometimes that maybe—I don't want to say it, but I think it, and by then it's already too late to change—I love him. Or I would, if I knew what love was. If he could understand.

* * *

_

I find Lucius in his study, sitting at his desk in a red velvet bathrobe, his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. I stand there, waiting for him to notice me. He puts aside his papers, his decanter of whatever liquor he's drinking and looks up at me.

"How did you find this room?"

"House elf."

"Ah." A longer pause, and I wonder just how much I have overstepped our unspoken boundaries. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Yes? What is it?"

I don't know where to begin. Let's see, your son struck me and then half-choked me because he's having some…difficulties in the bedroom? Are you going to get rid of me now and move on to the next perfect Pureblood candidate for your precious son? What's going to happen to me if I can't give you a Malfoy heir, if Draco hates me and won't even look at me, and now I'm no longer _pure_ enough for a good Pureblood girl, am I? You saw to that.

I don't say anything, and I can feel his frustration, but whatever he was thinking is set aside for the moment as he really looks at me for the first time. "There are bruises on your neck."

Somebody doesn't know his own son very well, does he, Mr. Malfoy?

My hand strays to my neck and I press lightly at the bruises, reminding myself that they're there, that they hurt. That Draco—my husband—did this to me. I wanted Lucius to see them, I know I did, so why I do suddenly want to hide them from him? "Yes, there are."

He looks tired, and I almost feel guilty for burdening him. "What do you want from me, Pansy?"

Take me away, get me out of this place, that's what I want from you—silly thoughts, I know, but childishly, that's the first thing I think. I want him to make it all better.

"I don't know."

"And I don't know how to help you."

That's that, isn't it? Now I know that he knows and he must know that I know that he knows. And who else can I go to in this family? Maybe I should be furious at him, for doing this to me, for putting everything that I've spent my life planning for in jeopardy. But right now, I'm too tired to hate him. And if I hate him, I have absolutely no one to turn to.

"I miscalculated," he says. "My estimation of the situation was…insufficient."

An admission of a mistake? An apology from him, or as close as he will ever get to giving one?

I don't know what else to do, who else to look to for comfort, so I go to him. I crawl into his lap, pressing my face against his chest. Slowly, perhaps even hesitantly, he puts his arm around me, draws me closer against him.

This time, I want him, I choose him. I lead him to the couch and pull him down on top of me. I don't care if it hurts, but I want his weight, his strength. I watch him closely. When he is with me in this way, over me, on me, inside me, he is no longer leonine—that grace, that held back power, it changes. I take the ribbon from his hair, untying it and dropping it on the ground, so that his hair comes down loose around his face and I can tangle my hands in it. I pull his face down to mine, kissing him fiercely as if I knew what I were doing.

He is almost reticent this time, but I guide him, placing his hands on my body, touching him everywhere I can reach. "Touch me," I tell him. "I need you to be with me right now." I don't shrink from the pain, in fact I almost welcome it. When I'm with him, moving against him, I feel alive for the first time in a long while. Skin and sweat and the sound of our breathing mixed together drive out the splintered thoughts from my mind.

"I know you," I whisper to him, and he moans—a long, ragged sound that makes me shiver.

Afterwards, he is withdrawn. All he says, as he unwraps my legs from his waist is, "This wasn't supposed to happen again."

Ah, he doesn't like this loss of control. But I do.

I didn't choose to be like this. All my life, I've been someone else's. Someone else's creation. Someone else's idea of a good girl—_sugar and spice and everything nice, and don't you bring any shame to the family, and remember how embarrassed we'll be if you're not sorted into Slytherin, if you're not in with the right crowd, if you lose Draco Malfoy now, if you don't marry him, if you don't do whatever it takes to be married to him, even if it means letting his father fuck you whenever he please. Right, Mother?_

I think it's too late to be the person I might have chosen to be. I'm someone else's girl now, for good—but this time, _I_ am choosing who I belong to. And I choose him.


End file.
